Dragon Age: The Sacred Chalice
by BadlandProphet
Summary: Thedas is on the brink of world war, and the one man who can stop it has disappeared into the wild, plagued by the one enemy he has never faced: his own conscience. Perhaps all is lost, but it is said that no man may run from his destiny, not even Hawke.
1. Chapter 1

Dragon Age: The Sacred Chalice

By BadlandProphet

Chapter 1

**Author's note: Hello my friends. I tried to test a bypass around a new story error, and ended up with a story I couldn't edit. So here's try number two with a proper description. Ignore that other one until I get a chance to delete it… I warned in the description and I'll warn again about MAJOR SPOILERS for Dragon Age II that start immediately. As a bit of background, I played through the campaign as generally just a pretty good guy. I was a mage, helped the mages, killed Fenris in the final battle, as well as executed Anders. I did not have Sebastian in my group, so I am just excluding him entirely rather than try to invent a personality for him. Throughout the story, there will be indicators of the choices I made, as well as a few from DA:O when necessary. That said, I'm terrible at updating because writing for entertainment usually only happens when I get writer's block on my more serious projects. P.S. I don't own anything to do with the Dragon Age franchise. And forgive any typos, I admit I'm too lazy to scrutinize final copies. **

**So… after Hawke and his companions flee Kirkwall…**

The water was smooth, and Hawke rather preferred it that way. When it was rough, or violent as it had been the night before, it seemed to reflect the turmoil he felt within himself. When it was peaceful, as it was today, it reflected the light of the sun brilliantly, and it was as if it had quieted his ever churning thoughts. On such days, he stared over the vast plain of the sea, desperately clinging to those rare moments of ease. It would pass, of course. This was after all, the Waking Sea, where the Vimmark Mountains channeled the ocean winds into the occasionally ferocious storm.

"Hawke." His gazing had been interrupted. He turned to stand face to face with Isabela, the pirate captain whose sun tanned face glistened brightly in the sun.

"Isabela," he said in acknowledgment.

"We've been sailing for days," she said. Her tone was restrained, but he detected a note of impatience. "I know you can't have much of a plan after fleeing for your life from a city you called home for ten years, but my stores won't last forever, even with the skeleton crew we have." He nodded distractedly.

"Take us to Antiva," he said impulsively.

"Antiva," she snorted in disbelief. She placed her hands on her hips as if she was only now becoming serious. "Hawke, you can't go to Antiva."

"Why not? It's on the way." She chuckled again.

"You've gone mad, haven't you? Hawke, every Crow in Antiva will have your name within a matter of weeks."

"We'll be the first people to come in with the knowledge of what's happened at Kirkwall," he responded, leaning back against the railing of the boat's bow. "Besides, I can handle Crows."

"Hawke, how many Crows have you met? Nuncio and his thugs, plus Zevran. And you're just lucky Zevran plays for his own team now. If he had been hunting you, you might as well be burning on a funeral pyre by now."

"You realize I just killed two of the most powerful creatures Thedas has seen? With the help of my companions, of course, but that makes little difference. Crows are no trouble to me."

"You've clearly never been to Antiva," she said, becoming frustrated. "They're not just assassins, Hawke. They're what keep the whole blasted kingdom together. They're the guard, they determine the politics, even the Chantry knows not to stick their nose into Crow business. If you go into their territory, you're a dead man."

"Sod it. I don't care." Her expression changed to one of hopelessness.

"You have a death wish, don't you. You know, Hawke, everybody's stuck by you because we don't understand life without our fearless leader to show us. Granted, Fenris didn't think so, and he was a lousy bastard, but he's dead now. And Aveline only left because she had to find Donnic before they ran to Fereldan. You should think about us, for once."

"Dammit!" he spat, turning around and pounding a fist against the wood of the boat. "That's all I've _been _thinking about, Isabela! This whole damn time." His voice turned to one of disdainful mockery. "The mages, and the Templars, and you and Castillon, and Mother, and Varric and his damn brother. The ones that aren't dead have a huge sodding target on their back because of me. Including you! I'm not so sure it's a bad thing if a Crow slits my throat in my sleep."

"Fine, Hawke," Isabela said, throwing her hands in the air. "You want to go to Antiva and get yourself killed, I'll get you to Antiva. I'd think about Merrill though. The rest of us have had some reason or another for joining up with you, but that girl doesn't have a single damn friend left in the world. All she has is you. And she loves you Hawke." He remained silent, and he was grateful when her heard her footsteps walking away behind him. He looked back to the water, looking for the peace that had filled him before the ship's captain inserted herself in his affairs, but now the water seemed to mock him. There was no peace. He spat into the water below.

He sat in thought for hours before becoming restless and going below deck to check on Merrill. She had complained of seasickness but had not so much as vomited. Hawke suspected that she was afraid to see the ocean, where not an inch of land was in sight, as she had commented that her feet had never left land when they had boarded Isabela's boat. When he entered their room, it was as he had suspected. She was pacing frantically, as if in panic.

"Sit down, Merrill," he said with impatience. She looked apologetically towards him and took a seat.

"I'm sorry, Hawke. I don't know what to do with myself. I'm uh- rather sick."

"Clearly." He took a seat on the bunk beside her. "I wanted to speak to you."

"Of course."

"Isabela asked me earlier where I wanted her to take me."

"What did you say?" she asked anxiously.

"I told her Antiva."

"Hawke, we can't-"

"I know. Let me speak." She nodded silently, turning her eyes towards the floor.

"I was thinking of going to the Anderfels."

"The Anderfels? Whatever for?"

"I… have had enough, Merrill. The fighting, and politics, and rescue missions, and Maker knows the rest of it. I'm tired. I was thinking it would be nice just to leave it all behind. In the Anderfels, there is more country than they have people to inhabit."

"There is a reason the steppes are deserted, Hawke." She was referring, of course, to the successions of blights that had ravaged the Anderfels and left much of the countryside uninhabited for centuries.

"There isn't a blight coming anytime soon, you can count on that. If we encounter darkspawn though, we will be able to protect ourselves. Think about it, Merrill. We can hunt and fish during the daytime, and the game will never run out. We will be alone out there. No war, no Chantry, no Circle, no Templars. I doubt even so close to Weisshaupt we will see any Grey Wardens. We can live in peace. Ten years of constant fighting can be laid to rest." She was silent for several minutes, likely imagining it herself and whether she could live in such a manner.

"It sounds lovely, Hawke," she said at last.

"But?"

"Well, what about Tevinter? Mages are accepted there…"

"You're afraid to be away from civilization," Hawke surmised.

"No! I'm Dalish, Hawke, the wild is in my blood. It's just… we could live quite wealthily in Tevinter. I'm a powerful mage myself, and you, you're the single greatest mage I've ever seen. You could have a lot of power in Tevinter. Just by dropping in, really." He mulled the idea over only momentarily, immediately dismissing it.

"Power's what got us into this ten year mess, Merrill. Haven't you had enough of it all? Isn't that what the Eluvian was about?"

"The Eluvian was about Dalish history."

"It was more than that," he intuited.

"Yes," she said after a moment's pause. "Yes, it was. I think you're right Hawke. Enough of civilization. It has brought us only misery."

"The Anderfels?"

"The Anderfels. But bed first, darling. Come to bed."

"I will. I'm going to tell Isabela about the change in plans, first."

"Then come right back."

"I will." He went topside once more, where the Rivaini woman stood at the boat's helm, hand on the wheel. The air was cool with the coming of twilight, and a cool air rushed over the boat that blew Isabela's hair back behind her gracefully. A slight smile played at her lips and her eyes were closed. It occurred to Hawke that he was seeing her in her natural element. It was perhaps from this perspective alone that he could ever truly understand her. His footsteps alerted her.

"Hawke!" she said, as if he'd caught her naked. Though Hawke reminded himself that this particular analogy did not fit Isabela well.

"Sorry. I discussed things with Merrill." She was glad to ignore the fact that an intimate moment had been interrupted.

"And?"

"The Anderfels." She stared at him blankly, blinking twice.

"The Anderfels," she responded dryly.

"Yes."

"And here I was punishing you for wanting to go to Antiva. Practical questions aside, Hawke, what could you possibly want to find in the Anderfels? Grey Wardens?"

"Solitude." He felt an inclination to smile at the word, but the feeling was gone before he had the chance to even acknowledge it. She shook her head and looked out across the sea.

"I won't argue with you about it. I suppose it's not my business. I can't take you all the way there though."

"I wasn't expecting you to."

"It would be several months of straight sailing. That's not including the time we'd have to spend in how many dozens of ports for maintenance and restock."

"I know."

"Plus, this is a bad season for heading to the Anderfels. I have never been there- that's another thing- and I hear the water ices over. This little ship will crumple like a rodent under your boot."

"I know."

"Plus, there's that whole thing between the Qunari and the Tevinters over Seheron. There is no way we'll make the passage without getting attacked. Whether by raiders or one disgruntled group or another."

"Enough, Isabela," he said finally. "I know you can't take me that far."

"I just feel guilty," she said, looking at her hands disdainfully. "Dammit Hawke, I never had a sense of guilt until you came along. I just…"

"You want to be on the sea."

"Yes," she confessed. "And I can't do it in the North."

"We'll be parting ways," he said, and her eyes flashed at him briefly before flicking back to the sea. She laughed bitterly.

"Wow," she said quietly. "I can barely wrap my mind around that one. I imagine without my shining example of moral supremacy to walk around with, I'll just go back to robbing people at knifepoint."

"It is your choice," he said indifferently.

"What? No lecture on the importance of compassion and righteous living? What's gotten into you Hawke?"

"I'm tired," he said.

"Go to bed, then, so normal Hawke can come back. This is too weird."

"That's not what I meant," he said. "I meant, I'm done with who I used to be. He's much too tiring." She looked at him long and hard, frowning eventually.

"Go get some sleep, Hawke, I've got the sails until Varric wakes up to take next shift."


	2. Chapter 2

Dragon Age: The Sacred Chalice

Chapter 2

**Author's note: Thanks for the first reviews! Hope this one keeps you interested! **

Hawke's feet, still rousing from sleep, tripped him as he mounted the stairs to the ship's deck. Cursing, he pushed himself back to his feet and threw open the hatch. It smacked loudly against the deck.

"Maker _shits_!" Varric cried as Hawke poked his head into view. "Hawke! Huh, you were never one for stealth, were you?"

"Varric," Hawke acknowledged tiredly. He reached the deck and closed the hatch. Varric returned to the position at which he had been resting before Hawke startled him, with his rear placed against the navigation wheel. His hands were occupied with a warped lute which, when played, gave an almost eerie tone.

"Little early for that, isn't it?" Hawke asked, taking a seat on the railing. "It's only dawn."

"I only woke up four, maybe five hours ago. It's practically midday for me." He spoke while plucking a soothing but intricate tune on the lute. "There are three ways to get a woman into your bed, Hawke."

"I hardly need lessons about women."

"First, the most obvious: muscles. Pure nature, my friend. Women given to their… animal side are most likely to pick out the alpha male in a crowd. His arms and chest tell her he is of supreme breeding stock, the weapons at his belt tell her he isn't afraid of the ankle-biters. She enjoys the thought of becoming his prey."

"Maker, help us," Hawke groaned. "I'm too tired for this."

"Second, a silver tongue. Don't underestimate the power of words over a woman's heart. A woman likes to feel good about herself, Hawke, and when a fine looking man like myself approaches her and puts his wordsmithing to work, she likes knowing that of all the women in the room, you've picked her. It's a developed talent. You have to sweeten her up, but no woman likes a sycophant. You have to indicate your interest, but you have to hold on to any propositions so she knows she's playing your game, not the other way around. If you're good at cards, you're good at women- general rule of thumb."

"Well you definitely have that one down," Hawke said wearily. "You talk more than anyone I've ever known."

"Ah, but Hawke, the third is the best of all. The lute, my friend, the lute. The notes spoken by a lute are sweeter to a woman's heart than any compliment you could ever pay her. She will watch you from across the room for half the night, watch your fingers work. You gain instant access to her heart without having to even try for it. You can be the ugliest sod in all of Thedas, you can get your food from the rats in the streets, you can have the blackest heart in the known world, and none of it will matter if you know how to play this thing right here. Those three skills have granted me every woman I have ever set my sights on. Except one woman in Denerim, racist against dwarves… huh, bitch."

"How lucky you are to have all three of them, then."

"Secrets of the trade, Hawke. I'll need them when we set out on our next adventure. We're headed North now. Rivain? Antiva? Tevinter's maybe? I hear Antiva has the most beautiful women in Thedas."

"There's no next adventure Varric." Varric abruptly stopped his tinkering with the lute. He set it aside and leaned with his elbows against the wheel, staring at Hawke, who had conveniently shifted his gaze elsewhere.

"You're going to have to run that one by me again, Hawke," Varric said forcefully, calling him on the statement. Hawke, to his credit, locked eyes with the dwarf. His eyes, however, scared Varric. They were not the determined, unyielding, almost predatory eyes which Varric usually saw. Instead, they seemed weak, powerless. Women spoke often of men's eyes: kind, or intelligent, or cocky, for example, but he had never placed much stock in such claims. It was clear in Hawke's eyes, however, that something had changed within him.

"My role in things is done," Hawke said after they stared at one another in the growing morning light for awhile.

"How very convenient," Varric sneered. "You know as well as I do, Hawke, that this whole mess bears your mark on it."

"I know. That's why I'm going to let everybody sort out their own problems for once." He looked back to the water.

"Hawke." He did not turn, so Varric continued regardless. "I stood behind you for two reasons. First, because you made me something more than I was before. You gave me a cause. And second-" He snorted. Why couldn't they just tell jokes to one another to express their camaraderie, as they had done throughout all the years before? "Second, you're the best friend I've ever had." Hawke looked back to him momentarily. He was clearly touched, but shame soon overcame him and he looked away.

"Varric, it's over. Let it go." Varric bit his lower lip and shifted his feet.

"Then you're not the leader I thought I was following."

"Then get on the lifeboat and go follow someone else." It might have been something they would have said to one another in jest if it were under different circumstances; humor came easily to them. But the words cut Varric to the bone. He shook his head in pain and resignation.

"Take the wheel," he said quietly. He picked the lute up off the deck and flung it overboard before disappearing through the trapdoor, off to his quarters.

XxX

The waters were always unpredictable, but the unique positioning of the Vimmark Mountains meant that the westward winds bottlenecked as they passed through the great ravines of the Free Marches. The mouths of these canyons were known to be frightfully temperamental, so when the powerful lash of a wave threw itself against the hull, waking Hawke and Merrill from their sleep, he knew the scene outside was likely deteriorating quickly.

"Oh, Maker," Merrill whimpered anxiously. "I think I'm going to be sick." Hawke grasped blindly for the oil lamp that would have normally resided on the desk, but the lamp- and the desk for that matter- had gone elsewhere. He summoned a bit of fire magic, illuminating the room. The few contents they kept in the room were scattered. Merrill had pulled the ratty blanket over her head, trembling fitfully in a fetal position. A second crash connected with the hull, sending Hawke off his feet and throwing him roughly against the floor.

Barely audible, labored steps sounded in the hall outside their quarters, and in seconds, Isabella was throwing open the door and staring at Hawke with wild eyes.

"On deck, now!" she shouted over the escalating roar of the storm outside. Her hair was drenched, and her clothing had been torn by vicious wind. The bandana that had fastened her hair was nowhere to be seen. "You too Merrill!" Merrill retreated further into the fetal position, and her voice, tense and desperate, was spouting an endless stream of Dalish prayers.

"Leave her!" Hawke said. "We haven't got time." He kept the ball of fire overhead so they could see. The trapdoor above was still open, gushing torrents of seawater and rain.

"Varric!" Isabela said, turning down the hall to his quarters.

"Up here, Rivaini!" Varric shouted, peeking his head through the trapdoor. They bounded up the steps, and Hawke struggled against the wind to close the trapdoor. He bolted it shut, with the momentary realization that if the ship went down, Merrill was absolutely trapped. The ship was small though, and keeping the door open was a sure way to strain the boat and fill it up with water. They would not survive it. He stood up, putting it out of his mind so he could focus on the urgent task at hand. Isabela put a hand on each of their heads, bringing their ears close to her mouth.

"We have to cut the sails loose! Varric, take the wheel! You're the strongest of us! You need to keep it as straight as you can or we'll roll! If you get overpowered, give it some room or the rudder will break!" Varric staggered off through the wind and waves to the helm of the boat.

"You know how to do this Hawke?" Isabela queried.

"I'll figure it out!"

"It'll have to do! Come on!" Bending low against the tempest, they reached the shrouds of the foremast, and taking hold as tight of hold of the rope as possible, they began to climb. The ropes flexed and swayed dangerously in the wind, and there was the unspoken knowledge that if either of them lost their grip, there was nothing the other could do to help, lest they be lost themselves. Hawke's eyes stung so badly that they were forced shut, and each rung of the shroud that he ascended was done so in blindness. Progress was slow, and over the roar of the storm, the wood of the masts groaned sickeningly. It was entirely possible that, with the sails up and full of storm wind, the masts could snap at any moment.

When his hands felt the slickness of wood once more, he forced his eyes open, finding himself in the foremast nest. Isabela had already beaten him, and was struggling to undo the knot which had kept the sails fastened.

"Don't hang on to it when it comes loose!" she screamed desperately. "It'll tear you off!" She pulled a knife from her belt and chopped viciously at the knot. Unanchored, a gust of wind blew her back. She screamed in agony when her wrist caught in the shroud, keeping her from falling to her death below, but also breaking her wrist with a vicious crack. Hawke, lodging his shoulder against the feeble railing of the nest, grabbed her arm and pulled with every ounce of his strength, even as she screamed and thrashed wildly at the pain. He successfully dragged her back into the nest, and went to the ropes only when she had locked her legs around the mast.

"I can't- I can't make it down Hawke!" she yelled as loudly as she could. He had to lean closer to hear her repeat herself. Thinking quickly, he summoned a bit of magic and severed the rope a length away from where it was tied, then quickly undid the rest of the knot. The sail, though it held to the top of the mast and flitted wildly, had been cut at the base and been rendered harmless. He tore off the slippery nightshirt he had worn and let the wind take it. Taking Isabela's hands hastily, he brought them around his bare neck and tied them as tight as he could possibly manage, to the point where Isabela howled painfully.

"You idiot!" She yelled into his ear as he struggled to lower himself over the edge of the nest and down on to the rope. "What are you doing? You're going to get yourself killed! You have to leave me!" He ignored her, grasping the rope with both hands and lowering himself down steadily. Already, Isabela's weight was tiresome and threatened to cut off his airway, but he continued his descent. By the time he had lowered them to a safe distance above the deck, he was struggling at the edge of unconsciousness. He missed the next rung of rope ladder and they fell unceremoniously to the deck. His body had only just missed hers, but his shoulder hit her arm, causing another crunch and a chorus of cursing screams. He unbound her hands and she climbed to her knees, clutching a useless arm to her side.

"What can I do?" she said, using the other hand to bring Hawke's ear close to her mouth again.

"Go help Varric if you can!" She nodded. She was one hell of a tough woman, Hawke noted in his thoughts. He turned his attention to the main mast and deliberated. He fired a few projectile spells at where the ropes were attached to the mast, but it was useless. The boat was much too unstable for there to be any accuracy in his attack. He began the unsteady climb up the shrouds once more, and was forced to climb several feet up the mast itself to get close enough to destroy the scaffolding that kept the sail anchored. The mast swayed in a creaking arc as he descended, and his survival instinct was as terrified of being swept away as it was of the ship going down.

When he found his feet back on the deck, a slight sensation of relief passed through him, as he knew that they had managed to give themselves the best chance of survival. Shaking off his fatigue, he approached the helm, where Varric and Isabela wrestled with the wheel. Isabela stood on the other side of the wheel, and could only read Varric's movements and try to assist him. Undoubtedly, Varric had to be on the verge of collapse by now, and Isabela's one-armed assistance was likely more of a consolation than a contribution.

"Get back!" Hawke roared at Isabela as he approached. She jumped back and Hawke hurriedly took her place. Putting his own waning strength into the wheel, he was shocked by the intensity of the wheel's ungodly force. That the spokes of the wheel had not disintegrated under the strain seemed like a miracle.

"I- can't…- hold it- Hawke," Varric groaned. Even in the dim light, Hawke could see that his face was a deep red, and every vein in the dwarf's body stood up grotesquely out of his skin. It would be the last image Hawke saw of his friend. An enormous wave crashed over the helm of the ship, sweeping all of them off of their feet and hurling them towards the opposite side. Hawke and Isabela collided with the railing, but the crest of the wave had peaked where Varric stood. A desperate gloved hand clutched at the railing in passing, but Varric had disappeared overboard.

"No!" Hawke bellowed in horror. Getting to his feet, he leaned over the railing and grabbed the robe attached to the anchor, severing the side attached to the heavy lead weight.

"Hawke!" Isabela cried. "The anchor!"

"Sod it!" he yelled back as he tied the rope around his wrist with blinding speed. He put a foot on the railing.

"You have to leave him!" Isabela screamed, grabbing him by the arm. He threw her off himself to the deck and leapt overboard in a dive. He crashed into the water and began kicking. His vision was extremely painful, and there was very little he could see at all. But the flash of white skin somewhere in the murk spurred him to a frenzy of kicking, and the white skin became clearer. Varric was drifting in the powerful undercurrents of the water, and his arms floated uselessly beside him.

_You have to swim_, Hawke thought, as if willing the message to his friend in the water. But Varric did not respond. He was utterly exhausted, and was likely drowning right before Hawke's eyes. Hawke kicked harder, rapidly burning the oxygen in his body. But a strong current swept from below and pushed Hawke towards the surface. Varric seemed miles away.

XxX

Isabela watched the robe streaming into the water with an open mouth of shock. Now that he had already jumped, she hoped to the Maker that two heads made it to the surface, though she had no clue how she was supposed to lift them both out a storming ocean. She cast a glance at the wheel behind her, which was spinning wildly in whichever direction the water pushed it. She cast another cautious look to the rope and noticed that Hawke's head had come up to the surface- alone.

"Time's up," she said under her breath. "Sorry Hawke." She slung the rope over her shoulder, clutching it with one hand to her chest, and the other arm pressed over it. She groaned against the pain, but began pushing off the railing with her feet, dragging the weight of a man through stiff water. She pushed painstakingly forward, gaining little more than a foot of distance each time. It was no had no strength in her. Her feet were sliding slowly over the surface. She had imagined her own death being very similar to something like this: young, on the ocean, fighting bitterly until the end and loving every minute of it. But it was a terrible waste for Hawke, and for Varric. A terrible waste.

Only a split second before her muscles gave out entirely, the rope moved forward. She lost her grip and gasped in astonishment as she fell to the deck. Her eyes looked up, and she saw Merrill holding the rope. She looked utterly ridiculous with the rope. Her tiny, limber frame was not even suited to a proper ship. But somehow, _somehow_ she was moving forward. Isabela could barely muster the strength to get to her knees, and the rope was moving by without her help. By the time she had gotten shakily to her feet, Merrill had dragged Hawke all the way up to the side of the boat. She stumbled to the edge, knowing that if she fell again, she would not be able to get up. She slapped a hand on the man's arms and began to give out the very last molecule of her strength.

Hawke was alive, and though half-drowned and delirious, he put his other arm up on the railing and began to heave himself up. Between the three of them, they managed to get Hawke halfway in the boat. Merrill let go of the rope and raced forward, pulling the both of them on to the deck. They panted pathetically on the deck while Merrill got to her feet and began dragging them towards the trapdoor, where the bolt had been destroyed, seemingly through magic. First, she dragged Isabela, and tossed her carelessly down the small set of steps down to below deck. She did the same with Hawke, though she at least tried to roll him so he did not land on Isabela, who was virtually dying of exhaustion.

When they were both inside, she stepped in, struggling to pull the trapdoor closed behind her. The other two were long unconscious now, and she clung to the handle on the trapdoor, which took all of her effort to keep closed and keep the entire lower deck from flooding.

Underneath the incessant howl of the storm, Merrill prayed to whichever god would hear her.


End file.
